


The Single Cyclist

by maypoison



Series: The Network [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Detectives, Eventual Romance, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, Multi, Pregnancy, Reader Insert, Slow Build, The Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 23:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypoison/pseuds/maypoison
Summary: Based on the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Solidarity Cyclist'.Sherlock is approached by a music teacher who is being stalked by a strange figure on her daily journey to her employer in Brighton. A simple case for Sherlock completely baffles you, and so you are sent alone to prove to the detective that you could be a reliable member of his team. Meanwhile back in London, tragedy strikes The Network.





	The Single Cyclist

It was 9pm on a Saturday evening, at you were sat on your unmade bed in Baker Street, holding an single photograph and crying gently. It wasn’t an old picture, and had only been taken a few weeks ago. A student photographer had approached you and your small group and asked if he could take some pictures. He claimed that he wanted to show ‘the real London’ and promised to pay you all £10 each if you agreed. You, David and Wiggins had jumped at the chance, whereas some of the older members of the group had to be coaxed into it. You still remember fondly how the oldest, Bill, grumpily moaned throughout the entire process, before criticising the fact that the photographer was using terrible lighting. You had all laughed, and that’s when the young man had snapped the picture. Wiggins had insisted on seeing it, but the student, probably reluctant to let a homeless ex drug addict near his camera, promised to go and print out a copy. You all had rolled your eyes, not expecting to ever see the man again. After all, he had his picture and you had your money. You didn’t need anything else, and the man wasn’t going to gain anything else by trying to find you again. But he did come back, sometime around midnight, and he had quietly handed you the picture along with a £20 note. The next morning you had excitedly showed everyone the picture, who all unanimously agreed that you should keep it.

“When you are quite finished reminiscing, we have a client.”

You nearly drop the picture in shock, and turn to look at Sherlock who stood in your doorway wearing an expression that clearly wasn’t one of amusement. After all, he had brought you here to work, not to eat all his food and drink all his tea.

“Sorry,” you mutter, carefully placing the photo back into the front pocket of your rucksack. “You weren’t -"

“Screaming your name for twenty minutes? No, of course not.” Sherlock replies sarcastically, before turning and marching down the stair case to the living room.

You take a few moments to smooth down your hair and clothes. You hoped that your eyes weren’t too red. You didn’t want anyone to know you had been crying; especially Sherlock. Then again, you think as you walk down the wooden stairs, he probably already knew that.

A young lady was sat on the sofa as you enter the room. She was stunning, with perfect skin and medium length blonde hair tied into a ponytail at the back of her head. Sherlock just walks straight past her and over to his chair without a backward glance, and you wondered if he thought she was attractive? Stopping that train of thought immediately you step over towards John’s seat, and flop yourself down into it. The young woman sends you a kind smile, which you reciprocate. You hoped it wasn’t a smile of pity, although you had become pretty decent at spotting the difference. You take the time that Sherlock uses to offer the woman some tea to really look at her.

She was wearing a beautiful tan trench coat; with leggings and the bottom of a pale blue dress just peeking out underneath. You noticed that she was wearing bright white and orange trainers, and thought it was odd. It didn’t go with the rest of the outfit at all, and you wondered whether they were a pair of shoes the woman had as a spare. Maybe her shoes had broken, or had hurt her feet. Or maybe she had changed them to run here. But why?

“No, thank you Mr Holmes. I’m fine.” The woman declines politely.

Her voice was quiet and contained, and you would never have assumed that given what she looked like. You mentally chastise yourself for making assumptions, and watch as Sherlock leans forward, no doubt making some hard deductions.

“So, Miss Violet Smith.”

“Yes. I know strange name,” The woman says with a smile, “But my parents are … were, very traditional.”

Ok, dead parents. There’s one deduction in the bag. Judging by Sherlock’s face, he caught that as well. You reach into to your pocket for your trusty notepad, and begin to jot things down.

“I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday evening, but it is urgent.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock says, clapping his hands together and leaning back into his chair. You could almost hear his inner monologue screaming, ‘get to the point!’

“I’ve come straight from work you see. Haven’t had time to change. ” She gestures to her clothes, and you smile to yourself. That explains the shoes.

“And this workplace is in the country no doubt, just outside of London judging by your complexion.”

Miss Smith nods, before frowning “How did you -”

“You’re a music teacher, private, for a single pupil in Brighton. You live and were taught in London, at the Royal Academy of Music. You travel to Brighton on the train and bicycle the last few miles to your place of work.”

“That’s a long way to travel every day.” You reply, and Violet nods in your general direction, although she is mostly still gazing at Sherlock questioningly.

“It is worth it. The employer is vastly wealthy and Miss Smith has her own room at the house that she can use when needed.” Sherlock answers, and Violet just nods again, distractedly. 

“How did you know all that?” The woman asks, and you are relieved to see that she doesn’t seem to be offended by all of Sherlock’s little deductions.

You know now would be the time that John Watson would say something along the lines of ‘don’t show off’ as Sherlock was about to explain how he made all of his deductions. You just stay quiet, waiting for the inevitable.

“There are calluses on your ring and forefinger that show you play a stringed instrument, probably classical guitar. However, the length and prominent muscles of your fingers show that you are also a piano player. You play more than one instrument, are well spoken and educated, so it would be a natural assumption that you were educated at the Royal Academy. Your clothes are brand new and expensive, but you didn’t really care about the sofa being slightly dusty when you sat down. Therefore, you’re not worried about getting them dirtied. You have a lot of money, but it’s not what you care about. You’re doing this for the music. Hence the deduction that you're well paid, but not well bred. You're a teacher, and not a professional musician.”

“And the biking? And working in Brighton?”

“You have changed into trainers from the train station, and each have scuff marks along the edges present after being rubbed along pedals repeatedly. You travel to a beachside location within around an hour travelling time from London, but yet your employer is still in the countryside. Brighton was the obvious choice.”

“I didn’t say anything about working by the beach …” The woman retorts, with a small smile.

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, and returns the smile with a smug one of his own. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his expression.

“The ice cream stain.”

You notice the small stain on the front of the woman’s designer coat. It’s plain so must have been vanilla, you think. But there’s a smudge of something else. A chocolate flake? She must have eaten it in a hurry. A well-mannered woman wouldn’t drip ice cream all over herself and then leave it there. She probably had to rush to catch her train you think, and wonder if you should write that down.

“There’s ice cream in London.” Miss Smith says, clearly enjoying herself. It was nice to see someone who didn’t think Sherlock was just playing a stupid trick.

“Highly less likely to be from the city than the coast. And it’s not that old. If that was from London, you would have washed the coat. But it’s a new stain, and clearly made today when you no doubt stopped for an ice cream before returning home on the evening train.”

“Ergo, you work near a beach because of the ice cream stain. You bicycle as we can see by your shoes, and you work in the country because of your complexion.” You finish, and Sherlock gives you a curt nod in acknowledgement.

“Excellent, that’s an amazing trick!” And there it is. The 'trick' comment. 

Sherlock hides his annoyance well, and just seems to snap back into professional detective mode.

“So Miss Smith, what can we do for you?”

“Well, I believe I may have a stalker. I can’t prove anything, but I am definitely being followed Mr Holmes; by a strange figure. A man, I think.”

“Miss Smith if you don’t mind me asking, how much does your employer pay for a private music teacher a year? I promise you, this is relevant to the case."

Miss Smith looks confused at the sudden question, before answering “£100’000.”

You mouth falls open in shock and you don’t make any attempt to hide it. That is an obscene amount of money! You write it down on your notepad, along with a little shocked face, and a few dollar signs.

“I see. So do you think this man, this ‘figure’ means to rob you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Violet shifts in her chair, and you note the way she is sat. Her legs are crossed and her back is straight. She must have been to a posh school, you think. “Every day for the past three weeks it has been the same. I get off the train, ride through the town centre to up on the coastal path. My employer’s house is a huge old manor house, so the road up to it is long.”

“Is that the only house along that road?”

“Yes.” Sherlock waves a hand in your general direction, and you write that down. “Well, at first I thought it was strange, because that’s the only place he could be going. I didn’t recognise him though, and I didn’t know anything about anyone else visiting. When I turned to look at the man, I noticed that he was wearing a huge hat and scarf.”

“It is winter.” You supply, but Miss Smith just shakes her head.

“He was wrapped up too much; he would have been boiling, what with riding up that road. It’s pretty steep.” She continues, and Sherlock continues to just sit quietly and listen. “Anyway, he was also wearing a pair of sunglasses; I thought that was strange. He just looked very odd.”

You look down at the notes that you had made so far. Strange figure, riding a bike, hat scarf and sunglasses, must be fit, possibly trying to rob Miss Smith. 

“Was there anything else you noticed?”

“Well, yesterday I just lost it. I was having a bad morning, and he was there again. I stopped, ready to get off my bike and confront him, but he stopped as well. Then I turned my bike about to ride towards him and talk to him, but he turned his bike around and rode in the opposite direction.”

“Go on …” Sherlock prompts, as you continue to take notes.

“Well, I thought he had gone back to town, so I turned around to ride to work. When I was nearly there, he was there again. So I sped up, trying to get to the house quicker. When I got there, the man had completely disappeared.”

“There are no side roads? No other way he could have ridden?”

“No Mr Holmes. There are no walkways or anything on that road because it’s private property.”

“Could he have just walked off into the tree line or something?” You ask, just as Sherlock stands and begins to pace the room.

“No not with a bike. And not so quickly, I would have heard or seen something.”

“This definitely needs to be investigated.” Sherlock says, and you assume that the strangeness of the disappearance has attracted him more than the young woman who is potentially in danger.

“So, you’ll come down to Brighton? I am working tomorrow.”

“My assistant will go with you.”

You don’t immediately take note of what Sherlock just said, as you busily are flicking through your note book. It’s only when you feel Violet looking at you that you suddenly realise what Sherlock just said. He wanted you to work on a case, alone?

“Your assistant?” Miss Smith asks, clearly confused as to why the detective wasn’t going to be investigating the incident himself.

“Hi.” You say, with an awkward wave in Violet’s direction.

“Oh, of course. “ The young woman says with an apologetic smile, before turning back to the still pacing detective. “So I will see you tomorrow then?”

“I guess so …” You say quietly, looking over to Sherlock for confirmation. You wanted to sound like the professional investigator, but at the moment you were to flummoxed by Sherlock to bother.

“Yes you will Miss Smith.” Sherlock says with un characteristic smile.

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson comes bounding up the stairs. She smiles at you quickly, and you send one back as a greeting.

“Sherlock, you have a visitor.”

The detective frowns, clearly not expecting anyone. It wouldn’t be another client either. The way Mrs Hudson had said ‘visitor’ made it sound like …

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sighs, before turning to Miss Smith. “My assistant will meet you tomorrow morning, Miss Smith. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” It is ultimately a dismissal, and so Violet says her thank you’s and farewells before leaving the room with Mrs Hudson in tow.

Mycroft enters the room, and watches his brother as he begins to gather some spare sheets of paper. Sherlock holds out a hand in your direction, and you wordlessly hand him your notebook. You hope he doesn’t see or comment on your little doodles. Mycroft says your name fondly, and you turn to smile at him.

“Morning. Would you like some tea?”

“No. Thank you. Actually I have come to talk to my dear brother, and I don't have long.” Sherlock doesn’t look up from what he is doing. You look over his shoulder to see that he is drawing a map of what looks like Miss Smith’s route to work. “It is urgent Sherlock …” Mycroft continues, but Sherlock still doesn’t reply.

“Is this about yesterday?” Two, almost identical looks of confusion pass towards you, and you flush. “Sorry, I meant when you came to see Sherlock last night.”

“Actually no, that has nothing to do with this.”

Sherlock scowls at his brother, and you wonder still what Mycroft really wanted when he came to see you last night. He must have known Sherlock wouldn’t be in. He always knew everything when it came to his younger brother.

You move out of the way of the two men as they lean around the table where Sherlock had been working. Standing awkwardly behind them, you watch as Mycroft begins talking in a hush tone, before stopping to turn towards you.

“Would you mind giving us a moment alone?”

“Of course.” You stop for a few moments, waiting for Sherlock say something in response. He just continues leaning over the table, and you smile shyly at his brother before heading upstairs. “I’m going to go pack …”

* * *

The next morning you rise early, excited and yet nervous at the task ahead of you. Sherlock trusted you to travel to Brighton without him and collect information for his latest case. It was a big deal, and you wondered if maybe Sherlock had something else that he was working on, hence why he would send you in his stead.

In the short time you had been working with the detective, you had noticed that the man seemed to take cases from a variety of people. There was no common pattern, and no common case. Of course, any ‘big’ case would be handled by the detective and John, and you were there to assist Sherlock day to day. But still, it surprised you immensely that Sherlock was accepting random cases, as you thought that the detective was rather more suited to international issues rather than a young woman and her stalker.

Walking downstairs, you spot a small piece of paper on the table that simply reads ‘Taxi and ticket. SH’. You pick up the small paper and behind it sits what appears to be a train ticket as well as a £20 note. Grabbing both the note and the ticket, you slide it into your pocket before quietly walking down the stairs so as to not wake Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. It was 7am, and you pondered whether the detective was finally getting some much needed sleep.

Stepping out of the building, you ignored some of the taxis that were idling down on the main road. Sherlock had kindly given you some money for the taxi, but as you usually did, you pocketed the money and walked to the station. It wasn’t far, and it was a lovely morning despite the cold. Bill desperately needed a new pair of shoes, and were saving to help get him and the other elder in your group a Hostel room over Christmas. It would be your gift to them, as well as getting them out of the freezing cold.

You arrive at the train station, and suddenly feel very anxious. The last time you had been here, you had been in the company of the great Sherlock Holmes. He knew where he was going and what to do, whereas you simply just tagged along and hoped desperately that one of the security guards wouldn’t chuck you out of the station. Luckily, you spot a few people who were loudly talking about the beach. You assumed they were going the same place as you, and breathe a sigh of relief when you see the group board the morning train to Brighton. You stand towards the back of the carriage, keeping the seats in front of you free for the elderly people that had become to clamber onto the train. You tried to ignore the looks some of the young people were giving you, and instead just pulled your coat tighter around yourself, and began to ponder the case and your new client. Miss Violet Smith.

You spot Miss Smith stood near the exit of the train station in Brighton. She is still as stunning as you remembered, with her sleek blonde hair and clear skin. A smart black rucksack rested on her back, and she was wearing her sports trainers. She seemed to be in a good mood, but you still approached her nervously.

“Morning.” You say casually, and Miss Smith turns and beams at you happily.

“Oh thank god, I thought maybe you weren’t coming!” She wheels her bike down the pavement, and you slowly walk alongside her.

“Don’t worry, I’m here now and Sherlock’s back in London working on the case.”

Violet doesn’t seem to be bothered by the lack of Sherlock’s presence, but instead her mind seems elsewhere.

“Ok …”

You both walk silently for a few minutes, heading out of the main town centre and up into the countryside. You don’t find the silence awkward, and instead use the time to admire the beautiful view. Brighton was a place that you had heard of often, but never visited. You wondered somewhat randomly whether or Sherlock knew that. After a few more minutes, you arrive outside town, with the road forking off in different directions.

“Do what you usually do, take as long as you need in town. I’m going to be up on the path to the house. I’ll watch in the treeline.” You say to Violet, who nods, before beginning to mount her bike.

“What if he sees you?” She asks, showing some concern which you find sweet.

“He won’t.” You reply adamantly. Miss Smith looks please with your confidence, and smiles.

“Ok. I’ll be coming back to London tonight. So I’ll see you and Mr Holmes at Baker Street after I finish work.”

“Perfect.” You wave quickly as the woman bikes away, heading back into town.

* * *

You stand hidden in the treeline for exactly an hour before you spot Miss Smith come biking up the lane to her employer’s house. You had walked up and down the road before she had arrived, and only noticed one place of interest. An old house sat halfway up the long lane, but it was completely boarded up. The gateway in front of it was padlocked and chained, so there was no way someone could manage to get through, and especially not someone with a bike. Violet looks around as she cycles, and you wonder whether the woman was trying to spot you. You smile when you rides straight past you, relieved and pleased that you had hidden yourself. Suddenly, another bike rides past, too quickly for you to get a good look. Just as the bike was about to turn a corner, it stops suddenly. You watch closely as the bearded rider spins the bike around, and rides in the opposite direction. He rides past you quickly, and a few moments later, Miss Smith passes you. She had turned around, and so had he. It was odd. Very odd. Violet stops near you, looking confused. You manage to hear her sigh, before she spins the bike around again, and rides back up the lane towards her destination. As before, the man follows her. Just before he passes you, you step out into the road, trying to appear like a random walker who happened to be lost on a walk. The man comes to a screeching halt in front of you, but before you have time to speak, he turns and rides manically in the opposite direction. You run to follow him, but cannot catch up. You see him turn the bend in the lane, and he disappears from your line of vision. When you round the corner, the man and his bike had vanished. The treeline was dense, and there was no way he could have hidden like you had. Sighing, you slowly make your way back into down, intent on going back to London and sharing your odd encounter with Sherlock. Hopefully, he could provide some answers.

* * *

The train back from Brighton was almost completely empty. It was lunchtime, and you tried to close your eyes and sleep, rather than think about how hungry you were. The journey was quick, only around an hour or so. The day was cloudy and miserable, otherwise you would have stopped and walked near the beach for a while. Sherlock wouldn’t really mind you be an extra hour you think. You could have got an ice cream, or even gone for a swim in the sea. The weather had other ideas though, and as soon as you had taken one step towards the beachfront from the train station, the cloud had descended and the freezing cold wind had almost swept you over.

You made a promise to yourself that you would take some of your friends to Brighton one day. Sherlock and his work meant that you had extra cash, and you didn’t need to spend it on Hostel’s. You had a bed to sleep in, at least for a while, so you could afford to treat the people who had become your family. Bill would love the beach, you thought, just as the train pulled into the smog and cold of London. He would be grateful to get out of the city, he always moaned about pollution.

Stepping out onto the platform, you think you notice someone stood watching you. You continue walking to the exit, excited to share the information you had discovered today for the case with Sherlock. When you look over your shoulder, the figure has disappeared.

“Great.” You mutter to yourself angrily. “Now I’m being followed …”

* * *

You immediately know that Sherlock is not alone when you enter Baker Street. You can hear Mrs Hudson messing around in the kitchen, no doubt cleaning, and the detective talking to someone else. Judging by the polite nature of his speech, you assume it is John. You smile to Mrs Hudson who stands over the kitchen sink cleaning, before hanging up your coat and dropping your bag on the floor. You planned on heading out to see your friends, and didn’t want to lose sight of the bag that now contained a huge amount of cash for them. You hoped they would accept the money, especially as the weather was getting even colder.

“Hello” John greets from his chair, and you flop down on the sofa, your travels and early morning exhausted you more than usual. “Productive day?” The man smirks at your expression, and you note that Sherlock was sat at the table, working away on his laptop.

“So?” Sherlock doesn’t ask anything else, and you sit up slowly and stretch.

“I stood by the treeline and watched him pass. Miss Smith’s definitely right, he was following her.”

“Yes, thank you for that masterful deduction.” The detective responds snidely, and you manage not to stick your tongue out at him.

“What’s got you in such a bad mood all of a sudden?” John asks, and you don’t need to see Sherlock’s face to know that the man is scowling.

Mycroft, you think, the image of the two men discussing something last night popping into your head. No doubt it had been important; they had been talking well into early morning.

“Age? Ethnicity? Any useful observation at all …” Sherlock asks you, still tapping away furiously at his laptop.

“I couldn’t really see him that well.”

“Yes well, that is understandable considering you were stood in completely the wrong place.”

“What?” You hadn’t explicitly told Sherlock where you had stood, but had assumed that standing hidden by the side of the road was a perfect place to watch Miss Smith and her so called stalker.

“There, a pathway up to a different estate. It’s closed off now. The house is being sold by a local estate agent.” Sherlock spins his laptop towards you to show you a map, but it is so blurry that you sigh and stand to go and get a closer look.

“Do you need glasses?” John asks, still sat in his seat by the fire.

“Shut up …” You mumble, not in the mood for Sherlock or Johns trademark sass.

“No, I’m actually serious. I think you need glasses.” John says again, and you hear him shift in his chair, leaning forward to watch you as you look at the map.

“Well, I’ve never had an eye test or anything so -”

“Hardly a worthy excuse.” Sherlock mutters, obviously referring to the fact that you hadn’t managed to see much of the stalker.

“It’s not an excuse Sherlock.” You reply with a sigh. You stand back from the laptop, and the detective flips it back towards himself. “I’m sorry that I stood in the wrong place.”

“Apologies don’t have any credence in detective work.”

“I didn’t do … that badly.” Sherlock remains quiet, and you hear John sigh. “Did I?”

“The private footpath that was closed to the public in 2002 …” Sherlock points to the estate near Miss Smith’s workplace, with a tiny road leading off in the direction of the main decrepit hall. The man was right, you had noticed the gateway and path, but it was completely closed off and looked ancient.

“You think that’s where the man is heading?” You ask, walking back over to the sofa.

Sherlock frowns, obviously wondering why you hadn’t noticed it before. “Of course.”

“But he has a bike Sherlock, it’s not just him. He couldn't sneak something like that over a footpath.” John tries to reason, but the detective just ignores the comment.

“I saw that bike Sherlock, it was huge; must’ve been really heavy to carry.”

“Well consider the fact that you even saw it to be a victory.”

You stand up quickly before you involuntarily say anything snide in response. Walking into the kitchen you begin to bash around loudly, attempting to make a cup of tea. Mrs Hudson sends you a look akin to pity, and you manage to smile back at the woman in response.

“Sherlock …” You hear John chastise his friend, walking towards where he sat on his laptop.

“What?”

“She’s upset …”

“No John, she’s frustrated.” You purposely slam the fridge door shut loudly. Surely Sherlock knows you can hear him perfectly well, despite the man whispering. “She’s frustrated that she couldn’t bring me any information that I didn’t already know.”

“So, I suppose that means you know something we don’t.” You mutter, walking back into the living room and placing a cup of tea in John Watson’s hands. He looks surprised at your action, but even more so when you place the second cup next to Sherlock.

“Exactly.”

* * *

“What did Mycroft say to you, that night he came and I wasn’t here?”

Sherlock continues the annoying tapping rhythm on his keyboard, and you close your eyes tighter to try and distract yourself from the constant noise. You shift around where you sat leant back on the sofa. John had left to check on his wife, and Mrs Hudson had managed to escape and had retreated downstairs. It was just you and the detective, sitting into the living room and working on Miss Smith’s case.

“Honestly, nothing really” You say, rubbing your eyes “I thought he wanted to talk to you but he didn’t.”

“Did he ask you anything? That is, before you threatened him with a pair of nail scissors.”

At that, your eyes shoot open, and you quickly sit up to gaze at Sherlock. The detective looks amused you note, but even that isn’t enough to stop your mortification.

“He told you?!”

“Of course.” Sherlock says simply, and you groan, leaning your head into your hands “It’s not every day that someone accosts him with manicure implements.”

“I didn’t ‘accost’ him.” You retort, putting on a ridiculous accent when you say ‘accost’ and that just appears to amuse Sherlock even more. “He just startled me.”

The tapping stops suddenly, and you are relieved with the blissful silence.

“Are you alright?”

You look up from your hands, surprised to see that Sherlock is frowning at you, appearing to look … concerned. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“Yes, blame John and Mrs Hudson. There the ones who take an active interest in your wellbeing.” He resumes his typing, and you lean back in the sofa. You weren’t going to be alright if he kept up that noise all night.

“And yet you’re the one I’m staying with, and you're the own asking -” You reply with a smirk.

“How did Miss Smith seem to you?” You roll your eyes at Sherlock’s attempt to change the conversation, but don’t comment on it.

“Fine.”

“I’m going to need a little bit more data than that.”

“She was fine Sherlock. Not stressed or worried. She was happy that I turned up.”

A short burst of knocking comes from downstairs, and you hear Sherlock snap his laptop closed. Mrs Hudson’s voice rises into the living room, and you hear Miss Smith thank her as she begins to ascend the staircase.

“Well I guess I’ll see for myself then.” Sherlock says, moving to stand by the fireplace and buttoning up his jacket. Always a drama queen you muse, before sitting up and attempting to look presentable. After all, you were the assistant of the great Sherlock Holmes. You had a reputation to keep.

* * *

“Well I’m famished …” You say into the silent room.

Miss Violet Smith had left an hour ago, and the detective had sat silently in his chair since her departure, no doubt musing over the new information he had been given. Miss Smith was engaged, and planning on moving away with her fiancée, due to her also been left a huge amount of money in her Uncles will. It was still unclear who was following her, as there were at least two possible men. Miss Smith however, ensured both you and Sherlock that her employer wouldn’t follow her. Then there was her employer’s friend, who had stayed at the house with them a month ago. He had tried to kiss Violet, and had been kicked out by his friend. He had the right motive, but according to Miss Smith, the man was an unfit idiot, not capable of following her and definitely not able to be so stealthy.

So you were back to square one. With no concrete evidence that Violet was being followed, you couldn’t get the police involved. Plus you didn’t even know who it was. Sherlock was clearly busy working. But you were too hungry to even try and concentrate.

“Do you want anything?”

“No.” Sherlock says, and you look up to watch as he begins to furiously tap away on his phone. Texting again you think.

“How’s John? And Mary?” You ask, wondering about the impending parents. Sherlock continues typing, and doesn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation. Although you honestly couldn’t think of a time when he was; unless of course, it was about a case.

“Working and pregnant.” The detective answers, still not looking in your direction.

“Poor John, having to work whilst pregnant …” Sherlock just scowls at your attempt at humour, and you clear your voice awkwardly. “Ok, I’ll be back soon.” You gather up your bag, and walk out of the flat, wondering where you could find a nice sandwich at 6oclock at night. Then you remember a lovely café nearby, and silently thank Sherlock and John for choosing a flat so close to the best bacon sandwich in London.

You walk out of Speedy’s with a smile on your face. The owner was a lovely gentleman, and you could see why Mrs Hudson had been charmed by the man. Putting your sandwich in your bag, you feel a presence from behind you. Thinking about the train station, you whip around quickly. But instead of a strange man, you are greeted by a sleek black car, leaning on the side of which is a very well dressed Mycroft Holmes.

“You scared the shit out of me!” You gasp, clutching your chest and laughing at your own reaction. You definitely needed to tell Sherlock about the man at the train station, before you became even more paranoid.

“I see working with my brother hasn’t made you any less … ‘street’” Mycroft says the word ‘street’ after a full minute of silence. Clearly he like many others had a problem with the word ‘homeless’.

You walk towards the man, nodding and trying not to laugh. “Oh yeah, I spit on the carpet and steal all the silver wear. I’m like Oliver Twist.”

“Yes well, when you’re quite finished with the sarcasm …”

“What is it?” You ask, wondering why Mycroft hadn’t made any move to go into 221B and see his little brother. The word ‘carrier pigeon’ zips into your brain, and you prepare a retort in case Mycroft asks you to give Sherlock a message. What he says however, is the last thing on earth you had expected to come out of the man’s mouth.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas eve?”

You try not to let your mouth fall open in shock, but cannot stop your confused frown that falls onto your features. “If I didn’t know any better Mycroft, I would almost say that sounded like an invitation.”

“I would very much like to talk to you, outside of Baker Street. Will you oblige me?”

You pause for a few seconds, thinking about the random offer. Mycroft had never really spoken to you unless it was important, or about a case. “Sure.” You answer after a while, feeling like you had nothing to lose by accepting.

“Excellent. Anthea will be collecting you 8pm.”

“Anthea?” You don’t remember anyone by the name, and wonder if it someone else like you who works for Sherlock.

A tapping from the car startles you, and you turn to see a blacked out window roll down slowly. With almost perfect timing, a young woman’s face appears, and she waves at you quickly before looking back down at the phone in her hands. It would seem that Mycroft’s dramatic flair even affects his staff. Looking at Anthea you suddenly feel awkward. True, you knew Mycroft well enough, but you wondered where on earth he could be taking you. Clearly it wasn’t going to be anywhere public. The man looked out of place and uncomfortable just standing by Speedy’s. You couldn’t imagine the man dressed in jeans at the local pub. John and Lestrade on the other hand …

“No need to look so alarmed.” Mycroft says suddenly, reminding you that the man was still stood there on the pavement “This won’t be an interrogation.”

You cross your arms over your chest, attempting to look serious but barely keeping your smirk hidden. “I wasn’t thinking interrogation, more like kidnapping.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, and Anthea, again perfectly timed, appears from the back seat of the car and holds the door open for her boss. The woman did all this without looking up from the device in her hands. You had to admit you were impressed.

“Give my best to my brother, and John Watson should you see him.”

“I will, thanks Mycroft.” You smile genuinely at the elder Holmes as he looks at you through the rear window of his sleek Mercedes.

“For what?” Mycroft asks perplexed, and you smile deviously at him.

“You know what …” The man rolls his eyes yet again, and you mentally high five yourself for making him do it. Annoying the Holmes brothers was the ultimate entertainment for you it would seem.

“Good evening.”

The car drives away slowly, and you watch it disappear from Baker Street, driving out into the cold night of London. You wondered where Mycroft lived. Probably in a huge house in the centre of the city, and your mind drifted to the glorious house you had seen when you had worked with Sherlock on the strange case of the Red Headed Agency.

You are grateful to get back to the flat after your little encounter. Your mind was racing, and you were eager to talk to Sherlock. However, you are immediately disappointed and slightly surprised to find the detective is not alone when you return to his flat. Two fellow members of the homeless network stand behind Sherlock, who leans over his desk and is silently staring at some documents. Hearing you come through the doorway, the two people turn and send you smiles in greeting.

“Hi …” You say, not knowing what else to say as you had never seen them before. You wanted to say something more, but you kept quiet, not wanting to disturb there little meeting in case it was important.

“Hey, you alright?” The woman says, in a rich cockney accent. The man remains silent, and he turns to continuing looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yeah I’m good thanks.” You reply, dropping your bag by the doorway and beginning to take off your coat. “Need another hand Sherlock?” The detective doesn’t turn to look at you, but you notice his breathing change, almost as if he was waking up.

“Nope.” He says simply, before returning to his silence. You hoped the two network members hadn’t been stood in the silence for too long. You knew first-hand how amazingly awkward that was.

“Ok.” You concede, moving to go and sit on the sofa, away from the group but still in the room. After all, the detective was well known for changing his mind at the drop of a hat.

“How’s the gang?” The woman asks, and you frown questioningly at her, not knowing really who she is referring to “You’re under the Arches mostly aren’t you, with Wiggins and that lot?”

You smile at the mention of Wiggins and your friends. Although, you considered them to be more like family “Yep, that’s us.”

Suddenly, you realise what you had said and what it meant. Sure you had visited your friends, but you weren’t really with them anymore where you? You hadn’t slept out there under the Arches in nearly a week, and Sherlock had almost been acting like you had become his new roommate. You wonder how long this arrangement was meant to last, not wanting to overstay your welcome.

“They find Bill yet?”

You frown at the question, it pulling you from your own thoughts and snapping you back into the presence. You assume the woman doesn’t mean Wiggins, but that would mean …

“What?” You reply dumfounded, after all you had visited the group three days ago, and everyone was fine. You begin to feel slightly ill, and the woman must notice, as she looks concerned.

“Bill, that old guy that hangs around the …”

“Yeah I know who Bill is.” You snap, harsher than you had intended.

“Not Billy Wiggins, that guy is a fucking moron.” The elder man says, before turning to look at you with an apologetic expression. You weren’t sure if it was because of the insult or the swearing. “Sorry.”

“What happened to Bill?” You continue, eager to find out what had happened to the man you considered to be almost a surrogate father to you.

“Dunno, heard a couple of folks say he moved somewhere and no one’s seen him in a while.”

“Moved where?”

Sherlock continues to lean over the table, staying silent but you can tell from his stance and expression that he is not listening to your conversation. Cleary anything that wasn’t a case wasn’t important at the moment.

“I told you hun I dunno.” The woman continues, with a shrug and a small smile “I think he didn’t want to go by the train station when the group moved, so went into a park somewhere.”

You stand then, walking back over to where you had placed your bag and coat. Putting on the jacket quickly, you try and ignore the concerned gaze both the woman and older man where giving you. There was almost a silent connection between members of the homeless network, and not you thought, because you all worked for Sherlock. It was impossible to describe your connection to someone who didn’t come from the streets. You simply just, understood each other.

“I guess you don’t know which park …” You ask, picking up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder casually. You patted it quickly to check that the cash was still in the front pocket, and sigh relieved when you feel the small bundle of notes through the material.

“Nope, sorry.” The woman says, and the man turns to shake his head at you as well. You begin to think, where would the man go?

Sherlock raises his head and sighs, turning to his two companions around the table and fixing them with a glare.

“If you are quite finished …”

“Sherlock, I won’t be back tonight.”

You don’t wait around for a response, instead just leaving the room in a flourish and beginning to quickly descend the stair case.

“Everything alright love?” Mrs Hudson’s kind voice asks from her doorway. No doubt your descent downstairs had been louder than you thought.

“Yeah.” You reply simply, before heading out.

* * *

“You scared the shit out of me, I thought …”

“A young lady such as yourself shouldn’t be swearing.” Bill shifts over on his bench, making room so you can sit next to him “Not now especially.”

You frown, turning to look at the man who was wearing a amused yet smug expression. “What do you mean, especially?”

“You, working with that Holmes character. Brilliant man …” Bill shakes his head and looks off into the distance.

“You know him?” You ask surprised. Your friend hadn’t made any mention of the Network, and you hoped desperately that the old frail man hadn’t been drafted to do stupid things for Holmes.

“Oh god course not, just read about him in the paper a while back.”

“Oh.” You reply, mollified.

“He solved more murders than Scotland Yard they recon, and they say that he’s a genius.”

“I agree with the genius bit.” Bill laughs at your expression, clearly seeing the undertones of amusement.

“You friends with him?” The man asks, shifting around on the freezing cold, green mental bench.

“I don’t think so.” You reply, rubbing your ice cold noise “More like … colleagues.”

“Oh, ‘colleagues’ hey. Well excuse me …”

“Shut it.” You reply smartly, and Bill laughs again. You were always amazed by the man’s joyous attitude and humour, no matter how cold he was or how hungry. “You need to go with everyone else Bill, you’ll freeze out here …”

“I like be out in the open, I can see the stars.”

“Bill …” You try and argue back, but your face softens when you turn to see your friend gazing up into the pitch black sky, his face a mask of peace and contentment.

“That train station smells like piss and is filthy as a dump.”

You laugh loudly at Bill’s sudden change of mood, amused that he could look so peaceful and yet still be typical grumpy Bill. “Well I can’t argue with that.”

“Honestly darling, I prefer it here. It’s a nice place for me.”

You choose not to argue, remembering instead the small bundle of money in your bag. You reach down to get it, before holding it in your hands carefully. You count it quickly, conscious that you are not in the nicest area of the city, before turning and holding it out to Bill. He frowns at your closed hand, and you smile and physically put the money in the man’s freezing hand.

“Merry Christmas.”

“It’s not Christmas for another week yet my love.” Bill looks down at the cash, and doesn’t seem either worried or shocked that you have it. “What’s this …”

“Some …” You don’t even get to finish your sentence before the man rapidly shakes his head, almost as if he had suddenly made up his mind.

“Oh no, darling I couldn’t take this. This is your money.”

He tries to place the bundle of cash back into your hands, but you cross your arms defiantly, refusing to take it back. The man doesn’t give up though, and you chuckle at his futile attempts.

“That I earned, and want to give to you. Get yourself a Hostel room over Christmas.”

“Darling …” Bill sighs, looking down at the money more like it was a loaded weapon than something that could get him a hot shower and a warm bed for two weeks.

“Please Bill, for me.”

You send the man your biggest pleading puppy eyes, and it seems to work, as Bill laughs once before carefully putting the money in his torn leather jacket. “Well, I can’t say no to you can I.”

“No, you really can’t” You reply with a smile, finally uncrossing your arms and rubbing them to try and warm your body. You both sit silently for a few minutes, just enjoying each other’s company, before you realise that it is only going to get colder, and you need to move. “Well come one, I’ll walk you …” You stand, turning to the man with your hand held out in his direction. Bill doesn’t move though, and despite his age, he reminds you of a stubborn toddler.

“Just one more night.” The man pleads, grasping his hands together, and you roll your eyes.

“Nope …” You wave your hand again, waiting for the man to take it so you can help him stand.

“C’mon darling, please.”

You sigh, before a neat little idea pops into your head. “Fine.” Taking off your backpack, you plop yourself down on the floor by the bench, stretching out and preparing yourself to lie down.

“What are you doing?”

“If you are going to stay here, so will I. I don’t like some of the kids around here …” You look around the dark vacant park, and can see the streetlights illuminating the bars around the area. It looks menacing, and the sounds of laughter and glasses breaking in the distance even more so.

“You have a lovely warm room waiting for you my love. Don’t freeze out here for me …”

You lie down before the man can continue, purposely stretching out loudly and yawning just to emphasis your point. “Don’t freeze out here period …”

“Ok, I’ll walk myself to the Hostel.” Bill concedes, and you shoot up off the cold ground quickly, secretly extremely pleased that you wouldn’t be sleeping on the concrete tonight.

“Thank you!” You exclaim, helping the man gather his belongings before linking his arm and walking side by side out of the small park and back onto the roads.

“You can come and visit me, I’ll have to find something for you …”

“Bill you don’t have to do that!” You argue, knowing immediately that the man was thinking about getting you a Christmas present in return.

“Of course I do, am I not a gentleman?” The man says in an exaggerated British accent, trying to hide his cockney one, and failing miserably.

“Of course you are Bill. Alright you can get me something, but only if it’s a song.”

“You want me to write you a song?” Bill smiles openly at your comment. It had been months since you heard the man sing, and wondered if the Hostel would have a guitar or piano he could use. He had been a music teacher after all.

“Yep. And then we can play it over Christmas.”

“Ok, it’s a deal my darling.” Bill says, leaning over to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. He unloops his arm from you, and begins to walk away from you down the street.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” You ask, watching concerned as the man hobbles along the street.

“I know my way love. You go back to your detective, I can find my way.”

“He’s not my detective …” You mutter under your breath, but judging by Bills infectious laughter, he heard you.

The man suddenly begins singing ‘It Must Be Love’ as he walks away. You spin around and hold a middle finger up to what you thought would be your friends back. Instead, Bill had turned facing you, and breaks down laughing as he watches you.

“You’re not a lady!” The man shouts, crossing his arms and shaking his head in mock reproach.

“Never!” You yell back, and wave, waiting until you see Bill get onto the main road before you turn and start back to Baker Street.

* * *

You breathe a sigh of relief when you spot the red banner over Speedy’s café, indicating that you were nearly home. The park Bill had tried to call his new home was not close to Baker Street, and your feet were sore from the journey. London never truly unnerved you; living on the street for so long had hardened you in that way and made you almost immune to the fear of a dark London night. What you hated though, was the cold and the damp, so you were thrilled that Bill had accepted your many and was going to a Hostel. You still couldn’t shake this nervous feeling in your gut however, and part of your irrational brain wanted to go to the Hostel and check that he had settled in. But seeing Speedy’s and the flat quickly changed your mind, and you remember Bill chastising you for being out in the cold when you had a perfectly good place to be.

You open the door quietly, not wanting to knock and risk disturbing Mrs Hudson. The main door was never locked, and you mentally told yourself to talk to Sherlock about that. Mrs Hudson had gone missing once; and you didn’t want that to happen again.

“What did Mycroft want?” Sherlock asks, just when you reach the top of the staircase. Of course the detective wasn’t asleep, despite the late hour.

“You saw him?”

“Through the window. Couldn’t hear you though.”

You laugh, walking further into the room and enjoying the wave of warmth that reaches over you. “Oh, well thank you for spying on me.”

“He’s my brother.” Sherlock replies simply, like that is an acceptable answer.

You drop your bag on the bottom stairs leading up to John’s old bedroom, and take off your coat as you walk through the open doorway into the warm but dark living room.

“Did you find him?” Sherlock asks, and you are surprised to discover that he had been paying attention when his companions had told you Bill was missing.

“You’re asking a lot of questions tonight.” You say, hanging up your coat.

“It’s what I do.”

“I thought what you did was answer questions …” You continue, walking forward and looking down at the work that Sherlock had on his desk. The man was busily typing away on his laptop, not even bothering to look down at the keys.

“Well?” He asks again, and you smile fondly at his persistence.

“He’s fine, sent him to a Hostel; didn’t want him to freeze to death.” You pick up a notepad that was lying open of the table, but give up trying to read Sherlock’s so called ‘handwriting’. It looked more like someone had just sketched patterns on to the page. “What are you working on?” You ask, trying to sound more like an investigating detective than a nosy teenager.

“Next case.”

“Can I help?”

“No need, you need to look over Miss Smith’s report.” Sherlock picks up a small paper folder from a pile next to him and wordlessly holds it out in your general direction, all the while still typing with one hand.

You laugh as you take the file, before opening it and slowly trying to decipher the unbreakable code that was the detectives writing. You notice that the first page is a word for word transcript of what Miss Smith had said a few hours prior, and were amazed that Sherlock could manage to remember everything that was said. “You wrote everything down.”

“Yes.”

You look up from the folder to watch Sherlock’s face closely. He doesn’t seem interested at all in the file, and you suddenly realised why. “You’ve figured it out haven’t you; you know what’s going on.”

“Yes.”

“And now you want me to figure it out.” You reply, flipping to the next page and looking on Sherlock’s hand drawn maps of Miss Smiths route to work. “Have you told Miss Smith?”

“She is coming into London tomorrow after work; I will speak to her then.”

“Ok.” You continuing flipping through the file, stopping when a page gets stuck and you have to loudly peel the paper away. Sherlock clearly seems unimpressed with the action, as he clenches his teeth in frustration. “I’m not going to disturb you doing this am I?”

“No.” Sherlock stands from his chair, moving over to his spot by the fireplace and sinking down into his leather seat. You could tell this was going to be a long night.

“Are you sure, I could …”

“Mind palace.” Is all the detective says in reply, and you sigh. You know that that meant either ‘get out’ or ‘shut up’. Not wanting to leave the warm and comfortable living room, you move to take a spot on the sofa, away from the detective.

After a few hours of reading and writing, you admit defeat. Sherlock still sits motionless with his eyes screwed shut, and you marvel at the man’s ability to sit so still for such a long time. Well that and you also enjoy the silence. It wasn’t something you had living on the streets. You were surrounded by constant noise, and had even found it difficult to sleep on the first few nights in the flat because of the lack of sound.

You think about going upstairs to your room to sleep, but quickly choose against the idea. You were too wound thinking about and trying to solve the case, and the fact that you couldn’t stop worrying about Bill.

“Desk. New case file.” Sherlock says suddenly, and you smile despite the man not even opening his eyes or looking in your direction.

He could obviously sense that you were not in the mood to sleep, although how he knew that was beyond your comprehension. You didn’t even think that the detective did sleep.

You sit and read the case file silently, flinching anytime you turned a page; not wanting to disturb the man currently looking through his mind palace. The information seemed to be unreadable and not even linked, with pictures of what you thought were universities and colleges, next to warehouses and bars. It seemed to be completely random information, but you knew better. Sherlock must be looking for a link between these buildings, and you pondered if maybe you could be any use. You decide that making some tea would be a good start, and move to the kitchen quietly, not wanting to wake Mrs Hudson when you notice the ungodly hour it was.

* * *

John walks into the room calmly, and you begin to sit up slowly. Sherlock still remained frozen in his chair, his eyes shut and breathing even. You wonder if he had actually fallen asleep, and judging by the look John was sending him, he was obviously wondering the same thing.

“Evening.” You say, yawning as you speak.

“Evening? It’s morning sunshine.” John replies amused, and he moves to the table to loudly deposit a newspaper.

“Bleurgh, that explains it then …” You moan, rubbing your eyes and trying to wake yourself up slightly. You were stiff and had a pounding headache, but no matter how hard you tried, you could not fall asleep.

“When was the last time you got some sleep?” John says suddenly, and you smile sweetly up at the man.

“Erm, when was Wednesday night?” You ask, trying to sound casual.

“Nearly two days ago.”

“Then two days ago.” You reply simply, moving to stand and collect your empty cup and Sherlock’s untouched cup of tea.

“Oh god, you know that really isn’t healthy.” You place the two mugs on the kitchen counter, and hear John follow you into the room. You head was killing you, and you hovered a hand over where you had been bandaged. “Let me see …”

You hold your hand away from the injury, and John squints as he gently inspects where the wound used to be. Now all was left was a red patch of skin and a faint line, but you still let him look. After all, he was a doctor.

“I feel kinda weird.” You admit, wondering whether it was lack of sleep or stress that was causing you to feel so woozy.

“Yeah not sleeping in over 24 hours will do that to you” John replies sharply, answering your unspoken question. He sounds like he is almost scorning you, and you try to remain serious.

You look over towards Sherlock, about to ask him if he wanted anything, when you spot that the man still hadn’t moved. “Look at him.” You scoff, pointing over at the frozen detective and John follows your movement, smiling at his friend fondly. “How does he do it?”

“Manage to annoy you without saying anything?” John jokes, and you laugh as you reach for another mug for your companion.

“No. He hasn’t slept either and he’s … fine.”

“An even mixture of nicotine patches, coffee and regular information. Keeps the brain active.” Sherlock says, jumping up from the chair and casually walking over to the desk where you had placed the folder.

“At this point I don’t think I even have a brain. More like a pile of mush …” You murmur, rubbing your head again and John sighs in exasperation.

“Ok, bed.” He says suddenly, taking a spoon from your hand and physically moving you towards the stairs.

“I can’t. I promised Sherlock -” You point over to the open file of Miss Smith’s and silently beg that Sherlock would plead your case. Not knowing the answer when the detective did was driving you mad, and you were determined to figure out what was going on.

“He has hundreds of paid lackey’s to do this kind of thing for him. You. Bed. Now.”

You walk slowly towards the bedroom, not wanting to fight against John, who had a arm placed gently on your back as he guided you towards his old room. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm.” The detective had walked into the kitchen, and had amazingly managed to put on his dressing gown In the space of a few seconds. You wondered if he just kept it hidden somewhere …

“Aren’t you going to command me to stay and help you?” You ask, purposely walking even slower to linger by the living room door.

“No.”

“Ok fine.” You concede, turning to smile at John before heading upstairs, your limbs protesting as you climb up the steps. “Goodnight John”

* * *

**John Watson POV**

“How was that case then? The cyclist …” I ask my friend, heading towards my vacant chair. It looked oddly unused, and I wondered whether or not you ever sat here.

“Her employer was stalking her, trying to protect her from an old friend who had become marginally obsessed and was also staking her. But she didn’t know about that.”

“Jesus.” I mutter, hoping you hadn’t had an encounter with these men.

“She’s moving away at the end of the week, heading up to North Yorkshire to get married.”

“How did she do?” I am genuinely interested. Sherlock claimed that my first cases with him were a complete disaster.

“She was adequate. Can’t say I miss your constant commentary.”

“I didn’t …” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, before sitting opposite me in his chair. “Never mind.” I continue, leaning back and clearing my throat.

“She got there,” Sherlock says after a while, almost sounding like a teach giving a report on a student. It was unnerving “it was a pretty straightforward case. Only a 4.”

“Really? And yet you still went all the way to Brighton.”

“No, she did. On my behalf.”

“Oh, right ok.” I am genuinely surprised by this. It took Mycroft personally asking his brother for a favour and him to decline that led me to get my own case without the detectives assistance. And yet here you were, working alone on a case just a few weeks after you had met Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock frowns, no doubt confused by my sudden smile.

“Nothing.”

“John, what?” The man was persistent, cut clearly because he didn’t like not knowing what I was thinking.

“You just seem to be getting along that’s all. It’s … surprising.”

“Surprising?”

“Yep.”

“That I found a new roommate?”

“That you found a friend Sherlock.”

“I don’t have any …”

“Don’t say it. I will punch you if you say it.” I growl, and Sherlock actually looks amused. He shifts in his chair, moving his dressing gown and clearly trying to keep active, else he would probably just fall asleep.

“How’s Mary?”

“Pregnant.” I reply simply, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to be amused by my comment.

“I hear that woman have a tendency to become more aggressive in the third trimester.”

“No kidding.” I murmur, remembering when my darling wife had thrown my slippers at me after I had left them by the side of the bed.

“I only mention it because given your wife’s background … well, you may want to avoid angering her.”

My mouth drops open in shock, but I fail to hide my amusement from the smug looking man sitting across from me. “Right yeah, well I’m going.” I decide, remembering that I had to head into work.

“Give my best to Mary.”

“Will do, oh and Sherlock …” I turn from my place by the doorway, looking over at the detective who was just staring into the fire, almost as if in a daydream.

“Hmm.”

“What are you going to do about Christmas?”

“Avoid it.”

“Very funny.” I lean on the doorframe, making it clear that I was still heading out. “But really, you need to get her something,”

“What, why?” Sherlock turns to me, alarmed, and I laugh at his expression.

“Because, that’s what people do; especially with roommates.”

“Ok.”

“Ok?” I repeat, surprised that the man had accepted so quickly.

“Yes, goodbye John.”

I turn to leave, before spinning around to face Sherlock once again “… nothing alive.”

“Goodbye John.” The man says again, smiling slightly.

“Or recently dead …”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes, and with a final wave, I head out to my office, pondering what on earth the detective was going to get the head of his Network. I spend the rest of the day thinking about it, before suddenly becoming terrified.

“Oh shit …” I say out loud into the empty doctor’s office “He’s going to get her shampoo or something isn’t he.”

I curse my friends black humour, before buzzing through my next patient. To my surprise, it is not someone I had seen in my office before, but they still seemed to be familiar.

“How can I help you sir?” I ask politely, watching as the homeless man sits down slowly and carefully in the chair opposite me. He looks terrified I note, and I wonder if he is part of Sherlock’s network, or even one of your friends. That would explain why he seemed so familiar.

“The woman at the hospital told me to come ‘ere, said it wasn’t an emergency …”

It had become common place for the nearby hospital to send non emergencies patients to me when they were extremely busy. I just nod in understanding, looking at the man as he cradles his arm near his chest.

“May I?” The man nods, and so I reach out as the man extends his arm with a wince. It is as I inspect him up close that I notice his face is bruised, and he looks to have been in a fight.

“Is it broken?” The man asks in a small voice, and I move my fingers carefully up and down the arm.

“No, just sprained.” I pull the sleeve back gently, carefully prodding the skin to feel for any swelling. “How did this happen?”

“A mate of mine was attacked this morning; I was trying to help him out. The bastards got me as well.”

I frown as I continue to feel for any more damage to the arm. I had heard about homeless people being targeted for attacks on the news. This was the first time I had ever treated a victim however, and it made me feel slightly uneasy; knowing that this could have been you.

“Is your friend alright?” I ask, trying to remain casual but still professional.

“No.” The man hangs his head, before quickly wiping away a fear with his free hand “He’s dead.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I reply honestly, before spinning to type some notes on my computer. “Are the police involved?”

“Yeah, they sorted it. He’s at the hospital now. I went with him, and then they told me to come ‘ere and get checked out.”

“Full name?” I ask, preparing to add the man’s details into the database. He needed painkillers, and I wanted to make sure that this incident was going to be reported.

On hearing the man’s full name, I frown to myself. That definitely was familiar, and I thought that maybe I had heard you mention it before. He was only a young man, and it was possible he was a friend from your group.

I ask him if he knows you, and the man’s solemn face breaks out into a quick smile and he nods, before he suddenly looks even more upset than before.

“Oh god, this is gonna kill her?” He brings his uninjured arm up to his face, wiping at it roughly as if the tears were unwanted and unneeded.

“Kill her? What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly needing to understand what was going on. I wanted to know if you were in danger, or even if your friends were. I owed you that much.

“It was ‘er old man wasn’t it? The guy who got battered. Bill.”


End file.
